Local area network

The AIR officials slowly warm up to Bhushan. Geeta Markaam, a senior executive, knows the artistes Bhushan is looking for and helps us with references and contacts.

We first head to Dhabli village near Indore, looking for a Kabir panthi called Munnalal Malwi. Without a proper address, and zero leads, our search seems futile. ‘‘Delays are normal. Either we don’t find the musicians or even if we do, they may not be able to arrange for their troupe on a given date,’’ says Bhushan.

An hour later, with Malwi in the not-found list, we drive past fields of soya, towards Ujjain, 56 km away. Sunderlal Malwi is waiting for us at singer Archana Parmar’s residence.

A troupe of musicians, including a dholak vadak and a tabla player (who’s running a fever), rise to greet us. Malwi is a 38-year-old full-time musician, with a Bachelor’s degree in vocal music. But both his and Archana Parmar’s performances fall a little below my expectations. Shankariya, a throaty, pacy love song, which originated at the Rajasthan-Malwa border and usually sung during local fairs, is Malwi’s best rendition. ‘‘I’ve even done ghazals before, but my soul is in folk,’’ he says.

Parmar’s voice sounds more suited for playback, and she renders folk in a light, ghazal style. Too polished, maybe they will make it to a compilation album. He might have a full web page to his credit, but he’s nothing like Swarn Noora, the voice that first led me to establish contact with Bhushan.

Noora is a Sufi folk singer based in a village close to Amritsar, whose first album was released by beatofindia.com last year and is their highest-selling album till date. Her raw, earthy vocals told a story that went beyond the lyrics about the immortal love affair of Heer-Ranjha—of a hundred other voices waiting to be discovered.

It’s almost 8.00 pm when we leave, but the day hasn’t ended yet. We’re driving back to Indore. Bheru Singh Chauhan of Bajrang Pura village in Mahu district has been lined up next. The journey over unlit, mud tracks takes over an hour.

When we finally reach 42-year-old Chauhan’s house, half the village is waiting for us there. His all-men mandali (groups) seats itself in front of a wall that has been painted in two colours—lotus pink and sky blue.

The scrawny men with bright headgear are edgy, under the harsh glare and heat produced by a single halogen. There are two lead vocalists, including Chauhan’s elder brother, and we realise that today’s last act is as authentic as it gets.

They open the performance with Maara Mandariya Mein Aap Padharo Ganpati in praise of the elephant god, moving on to Kabir bhajans such as Aaj Anand Yahaan Bhaayo Angna Mein as a mark of welcome. The manjira (cymbal) player—eyes shut, hands swinging in wide arcs and upper body swaying lazily—appears to be in a trance.

A little later, we ask Chauhan why his group doesn’t have female performers. ‘‘Here we don’t even sit with our wives in front of our elders,’’ replies Chauhan, a little shocked at our question. There goes the global village theory, and so what if there’s cellphone connectivity.

Ujjain. Sixty-three-year-old Ram Avtar Akhand’s group is in perfect sync with each other, and the performance, though well-rehearsed, has not lost its rustic appeal.

The first track Pyaaro Laage Re Maaro Malwo Des knocks the wind out of me. Dandiya queen Falguni Pathak has ripped this one off for her Maaro Ghaagro Re. The originals keep coming at you.

A wedding song, traditionally sung by a girl who awaits the arrival of her brother, called Gaadi Jo Radki Ret Me Beera inspired Pathak’s Chudi Jo Khanki Haath Mein. Remember the music video that featured Riya Sen?

Another number based on Kabir’s verse—Taari Vachan Si Kaaya Ko Bharosa—distinctly sounds like one of Pathak’s earliest hits—Maine Payal Jo Khankayee (the puppet music video).

When we tell the group about it, they’re not surprised. ‘‘Yeh copy karte rehte hain,’’ says Rajkumar, Akhand’s 35-year-old son, who sings and plays the manjira.

‘‘The city dwellers go ahead, and we remain where we are.’’ That’s a piece of information you should take with a pinch of salt, considering the group has travelled across the North, including the capital.

‘‘Father has been performing these traditional songs for AIR for the past 40 years,’’ adds Rajkumar, an accountant by profession. His elder brother Rakesh also accompanies Akhand on the tabla. ‘‘My colleagues are happy that I’m an artiste and let me off whenever I have a rehearsal or a show,’’ explains the 36-year-old electrical engineer.

We pass by vendors seated on the ground, who fan mounds of burning coal placed next to bouquets of golden corn in cane baskets. We have to stop for some mouth-watering bhutta. Our main local resource person Dinesh Sharma tells us how the monsoons haven’t visited this year, so the corn isn’t as juicy. We’re not complaining.

We’re driving back to Indore to a village called Dakachya, where we are met by a group headed by Makhanlal Chowdry. The average age of the group is 50. The witty, elderly men flock together in an unfinished brick and cement structure next to a Sant Singhaji temple. Singhaji was born 400 years ago, and has been an important influence on religious folk music in Malwa. The singers belong to a group that was formed 100 years ago.

The room’s grey ceiling has wires criss-crossing each other like kite threads. But there’s no electricity in the building. Bhushan backs up on battery, as the men, who are divided into two groups of three vocalists and two accompanists, launch into an energetic santvaani. There is a fair amount of petty bickering in the group, concerned with who should lead the vocals, and some shushing when curious little boys noisily scuttle into the room.

The performance is accompanied by manjiras and a percussion instrument called the chota mridang or a small mridangam, which is padded with wheat flour on one side and coated in black dye on the other.

After six songs, which include some written by Dalu Das, Sant Singhaji’s favourite disciple, Bhushan records the group with her handycam.

The man we meet in the evening is the finest Kabir panthi I’ve heard so far. Prahlad Singh Tipanya is my journey’s destination.

Peerless in vocal quality as well as composition, Tipanya and his five-string tambur (don’t mistake this for the tanpura, this instrument, when strummed hard, sounds suspiciously like a guitar) have travelled through the West Coast. ‘‘California, Santa Berra, Los Angeles,’’ rattles 54-year-old Tipanya.

Much before he became the most popular singer in Luniyakhedy near Ujjain, Tipanya walked barefoot from village to village for performances, carrying his harmonium on his head.

‘‘I first heard a peasant song based on Kabir’s verse in a village called Gorkhedi in 1975,’’ recalls Tipanya. ‘‘I had to sing along, the voice came from somewhere within me.’’ His face doesn’t contort and there are no histrionics when he sings with his eyes shut. He devotes all the emotion to his vocals.

When Tipanya sings Gaadi Maari Rang Rangeeli, Paiyan Hain Laal Gulaal, the simplicity of the lyrics, much like any other work of Kabir, fills up your senses.

The next day, after a hurried breakfast, we have an appointment with a group of housewives famous across Madhya Pradesh for their Sunderakhand performances. Sushma Vyas, 45, who founded the two-year-old Malwa Sangeet Kalakendra, says that the 10-member team meet every day at her sister’s residence for three-hour song rehearsals.

Their guru Hira Singh Borliya, a volatile old man, appears to be one of the few singers who can exploit the female singing scale effortlessly. ‘‘Why should the gents have monopoly?’’ asks Vyas, adjusting her spectacles.

The group swings between regular cheerful wedding style songs and short bhajans. The women grin and sometimes laugh out loud when Borliya tries to crack the whip.

Keeping in mind the Chauhans of Bajrang Pura and the Chowdrys of Dakachya, this part of India is making some equal music.